


pee-pee pants city

by smalltits



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Gen, Humiliation, Omorashi, Trash™, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-10 21:31:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11700276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smalltits/pseuds/smalltits
Summary: The Saviors help themselves to Alexandria's bottled water supply. Negan helps himself too much.





	pee-pee pants city

**Author's Note:**

> file name: "(shitty dog from 101 dalmatians voice) help. help. help. help!"

The use of dirty, shitty old maps confirmed that the drive from the Sanctuary to Alexandria Safe-Zone was a long fucker. The only thing that could make the long procession of the looting Saviors’ drive more miserable was the heat - which, unfortunately, presented itself in the fact that it was July in the motherfucking South. The men riding on motorcycles - they definitely had it the worst, for Negan didn’t allow his men to make any rifts in the clearly very tight and essential schedule of himself and the Saviors - making sure he spent enough quality time with the wives, for example.

Negan sat in the passenger seat of the truck leading the Saviors’ procession, helping himself to some of the water humbly received from their trade deal with Alexandria. While the weekly excursion to their favorite subjugated community was being planned, he also humbly planned to have the only truck with air conditioning be the one he and Dwight rode in.

“You know, in a world where a dead person can come back and eat your head, because you were too stupid to not shoot him in the head,” Negan chided gleefully to his ever-sullen and complacent subordinate, “It’s still important to realize that hydration. Is. Key.” He stressed the words and rocked his head back to punctuate the words, in the same goddamn impish way that pissed Dwight off more each second more he was in his foreman’s presence.

Dwight didn’t respond, but Negan chuckled smoothly anyway - Dwight at least displayed some respect for Negan, and in return, he got Negan finding cruel joy in pushing Dwight’s buttons. “Or, if you will, in a world where a man can still sneak a bone in with his ex-girlfriend, after she willfully leaves him for another outstanding man, it’s still important to realize that hydration is goddamn important, especially when said hydration can help said man’s...skin.”

This time, Negan just smiled to himself, and topped off the last of what was left of his water bottle. Dwight mood worsened, and he starting fantasizing about the most subtle, petty thing he could do to Negan to piss him off, or make his day worse.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Usually, Negan’s boisterousness would’ve reached peak by now, and Dwight would’ve genuinely considered crashing the gunpowder-laden truck and letting them both die - if it meant Negan would shut the fuck up. But starting about an hour and a half through their drive home, Dwight noticed that Negan’s comments and jests were becoming progressively more sporadic and terse. And now, as they were 10 miles away from the Sanctuary, Negan was uncharacteristically quiet and grave.

Of course, Dwight didn’t talk to him, but it didn’t take a genius to know that Negan without his frustratingly well-crafted insult humor, and violent tendencies manifesting in raucousness, wasn’t Negan. For this reason, though, he did at one point look over to Negan to check if he was actually alive. He didn’t know what the matter was, but he didn’t really care to ask, either.

Dwight didn’t look over at that very minute though, and if he did, he would’ve found Negan back to his jovial self, in a sense. He jiggled his legs intensely, though his thighs were clamped together tight, and instead of the solemn look that worried Dwight before, his expression was a mix of anger, discomfort, and, unlikely as it might be, embarrassment. He tried not focusing on the several empty water bottles around his feet, which were a callous reminder of how much liquid was now threatening to burst his bladder.

Yes, Great Mr. Negan really, really needed to piss - becoming victim to his body’s urges, his own lack of thought towards how he drank enough water for at least six of his men, and the fact that he was too prideful to ask Dwight to pull over. Or at least loosen his own belt.

However, the notion of upkeeping his pride became less and less appealing, even in the home stretch towards his very own post-apocalyptic servant community, where he garnered the respect (and maybe more importantly, fear) of the tens of dozens of people there. Dwight ran over some piece of junk, and the jolt almost made Negan lose control of his bladder.

“Goddamn, Dwight!” Negan blurted suddenly. It was a reflexive response that hopefully wasn’t enough to make Dwight pay too much attention to his…state.

“Sorry,” Dwight spoke deadpan, for the first time on the car ride. Maybe hitting the big rock wasn’t unintentional, and maybe this was his very shitty, very subtle, and very petty way of standing up to Negan. Though, it wasn’t so shitty considering Dwight still didn’t know that his boss was on the verge of wetting his pants. Nervous, Negan thought he needed a cover.

“Y-you’re makin’ this the first time I’m gonna get car-sick,” Negan barked. My cuckold subordinate is a fucking maniac driver and got me car-sick sounded better than I’m the fearsome leader of a powerful community but I also can’t control my bladder better than some shitty kid.

Conveniently for the apparently car-sick and squirming commander of the two, the Sanctuary was in sight. Seeing any sort of way to get out of that miserable fucking truck was a dream come true for Negan, for any location not in a car meant he could relieve his sore, swollen bladder. However, Negan just wasn’t the kind of guy to whip his dick out in front of his subordinates - no, that would count as workplace sexual harassment. Negan found that line a little funny and tried to remember it for use later. Regardless, he would go and seek one of the many toilets in the Sanctuary.

At least, he assumed there were many toilets in the Sanctuary. As they neared the building, Negan realized there were so many fucking rooms in that massive shitty excuse for a living space that the only places he really knew were his own living quarters, and Dr. Carson’s - which he knew had a bathroom attached to it.

And so Negan had his plan - make a beeline for Carson’s as fast as he could, and fuck anyone who got between him and the toilet. To Negan’s frantic and aggressive mind, this was absolutely flawless - and then he fortunately realized that he didn’t fucking remember how to get to Carson’s either. And then, unfortunately for Negan, Dwight, seeing it reasonable that Negan wanted to visit the doctor’s to throw up, was the one to pursue the opportunity to be petty to his dickhead boss and give him the wrong directions to the clinic.

A couple men came to approach Negan, perhaps about the conditions of trade with Alexandria, and they were promptly brushed off by Negan as he, most undignified, sprinted inside one of the Sanctuary’s foyers. It was the first time he was alone in about two and a half hours, and so he seized the opportunity to grab at himself, whimpering - making a sad motherfucking squeaking noise because of something he could’ve controlled - pathetically. He had never had to piss this bad before in his motherfucking life, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Determined, however, he continued on, following Dwight’s directions through the dull, musty labyrinth, accompanied by much hobbling and weak sounds from Negan. The formidable, fearsome man was reduced to childish whining in his thoughts, complaining about how big his slave community’s building was, and how much he needed to go. These thoughts occupied his mind, where the realization that Dwight had given him the wrong directions should’ve. At that point, it didn’t matter, though, because Negan felt himself fucking leak against his hand. He needed to piss in a toilet right fucking now.

Unfortunately for Dwight, the directions did actually, somehow, lead Negan to Carson’s. Knowing fully well that the clinic’s ‘hours’ were over, and that Carson used it for his sleeping quarters, Negan banged on the door with one hand, and grabbed his crotch with the other.

“Carson, open the fucking door!” Negan boomed, trying his best through his franticness to feign the authority that he used over just about anything that moved. Of course, his body told a different story - he was doing anything to alleviate the desperation now. In the same leather jacket, gloves, and boots he stood in over men with their heads bashed in, armed with an all-fucking-awesome baseball bat, he was potty-dancing and grabbing at his crotch powerlessly like a little kid.

He didn’t hear anything for a few seconds, and of course the old man had to take his time to get out of bed, but the irrational man before his door didn’t want any of it. “Ca-Carson! Now!” Negan stuttered and pointlessly slammed on the door again, trying to exert dominance over the old man who didn’t know what the fuck was going on again. Of course, energy put into this was energy taken out of making sure he lose control, and he felt another, larger leak.

“O-oh shit…” Negan said, softer, and in a tone so weakened, he felt himself recoil from the sound of it. The wet patch on his denim expanded - he definitely wouldn’t be able to tell Carson he just needed to puke now. He would definitely have to tell this old fucking doctor - one of his subordinates - that he doesn’t have any control over his bladder, and that he’s a pussy piece of shit, and - a panicked Carson opened the door that Negan was leaning up against. Negan steadied himself quickly, hands returning to their conciliatory place in his crotch, but Negan already recognized the lewd feeling of hot urine against his hand.

In front of the now-even-more-confused Carson, Negan let out a string of the most pathetic noises he had ever made. Urine flowed intensely out of his jeans’ hem. His upper thighs were covered in shiny, wet streaks, and what piss was too much for the denim splattered on the floor, making a humiliating puddle. Negan recognized the noise it made and fucking moaned in shame - as well as relief. Feeling his bladder empty was the perfect mix of painful, incredibly relieving, and humiliating at the same time, and Negan just didn’t know how to react, his mind initially blank and blinded by the physical sensation.

After that shock wore off, Negan could only cover his mouth in shock as the stream died down. He was a sight for sore eyes - his jeans were fucking ruined, dripping with piss, and legs still trembling from the intense feeling. His boots were in a similar state, but Negan had also began to deal with how they were water-logged/piss-logged. And for a split second, the puddle below Negan made him want to pa-fucking-thetically cry out of embarrassment.

“F-fuck…” Negan’s voice was wavering, his face red and pathetic from humiliation. Carson knew that he would be caught dead seeing Negan like this, and instinctively slammed the door shut in Negan’s face.


End file.
